Mycroft Holmes (17 page)

“I don’t like what you are implying, Holmes,” Douglas said evenly. “How would I know the ways to dispose of bodies aboard a ship of any size? Although you are quite correct,” he amended. “Short of cutting them up for stew…”

“…either they go overboard,” Holmes agreed, “or up the chimney. Once our mysterious opponents faked the death of the two assailants, they observed our attempt to check the
other
viable method of disposal—the furnaces. When we laid out my handkerchief and left it alone, we made it easy for them.

“The trap was laid,” he concluded, “and they fell in.”

“The trap?” Douglas replied. “What trap? You never mentioned anything of the kind…”

Holmes shrugged. “It was a hunch. And had I been wrong, I did not care to show my hand. But I did know this—if they wished us to believe that someone had been torched, they would need to provide ashes. And so they did.”

“Always ‘they’,” Douglas said irritably. “Though we still cannot fathom who ‘they’ might be.”

“Now that is where I have
outstanding
news!” Holmes said as his smile grew. “You heard the purser call out the presence of a pickpocket, did you not?”

“Of course. Everyone heard.”

“And what is the first thing you did upon hearing it?”

“Felt for my wallet.”

Holmes nodded. “Standing near me, and feigning not to notice me at all, were three of the ‘government types,’ along with that other one, the American Adam McGuire. When the purser called out the warning, they seemed surprised, but made no move. They already knew a pickpocket was aboard, just as they knew that they would not be his marks.

“For they are the ones who had hired him.”

“The boy?” Douglas asked. “The duffer?”

“There you have it!” Holmes replied, clearly pleased with his friend’s deductive skills. He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “It was that lovesick boy who broke into our room. Who put the poisoned powder in the medicine box. It was he who purloined the old woman’s locket and emptied its contents, and then replaced it without allowing the woman or her maid to be any the wiser.”

“And cutting the woman’s purse?” Douglas objected. “Was that part of their plan?”

Holmes shook his head no. “Most likely that was from habit, or to impress someone with his cleverness. As I said, the men did register surprise. But they did not see themselves as victims.”

“Of course, the larger question remains,” Douglas persisted. “
Why?
Why any of it? Why attack us? Why incapacitate us through the course of the journey? And why try to make us believe that our assailants are dead?”

Holmes shrugged. “Perhaps they are throwing everything at us, hoping something connects. As I suspected when we were first attacked, they are not professional killers. Murder is their last resort. But I would say they are approaching that last resort rather quickly.”

The ship’s whistle sounded.

The
Sultana
had come into port.

Douglas rose to his feet and cracked his sore back.

“Forgive me for not being more impressed with your deductions, Holmes, though they are impressive,” Douglas said. “I am tired, aching, and famished, and in spite of your good work, we seem to be out of our league—and certainly out of our element.”

“True enough,” Holmes replied. “But we are new at it. We shall get better.”

Douglas looked at Holmes, surprised and a bit annoyed.

“I do not wish to ‘get better’,” he objected. “I enjoyed my life well enough as it was!”

Holmes arched an eyebrow. “Yes, but when one is given lemons, one must perforce make lemonade. Either that, or they shall make lemonade of us.”

Douglas sighed his assent. Then he wearily picked up the bags again and walked toward the saloon door.

* * *

Holmes would have followed behind, but his nose had other plans. On a plate left next to the rubbish bin, he spotted a few slices of bread, along with a piece of smoked haddock.

He quickly secured the repast for himself and Douglas. Then they left the room and proceeded along the deck. They walked toward the gate, eating as they went.

“So now we are banged up like two soused old seamen,” Douglas said ruefully, “and smelling like fish.”

“True,” Holmes agreed. “But a dried piece of fish has never tasted so good as this. And I have never been so glad to say goodbye to a ship as I am to the great
Sultana
.”

THE TWO OF THEM SOON FORMED PART OF THE GREAT CRUSH OF
humanity that was working its way down the gangway to the dock.

The sky was crystalline blue. In the distance, church steeples rose up here and there over the one-story houses and the green, sloping hillsides. Banyan and silk cotton trees swayed in a wind not yet sticky with heat and humidity. Trinidad would have another month or more of glorious weather before daily showers marred the tourists’ fun and made life tedious for the locals.

The closer they got to the wharf, the more they heard the lilting sound of native speakers, as different from the clipped tones of Cumberland House as sand is from concrete. But then another sort of sound rose up—one that seemed as if it had been plucked directly from the gutters of East London.

It was the boy they had seen writing on the ship, the duffer. He was down below, on dry land. His wrists were bound, and on either side of him stood a ship’s constable. As they were dragging him away, he was yelling back rather desperately toward the
Sultana
.

“I done all ya ast me!” he cried. “My kidsman’ll tell ya, I h’ain’t no duffer, I’s a proper fine wirer!”

A stunned Holmes looked to Douglas.

“Do you know what this means?”

Douglas groaned. He was struggling to hold the bags in a way that would not send pains shooting up and down his spine. He’d had enough of questions and mental gymnastics.

Nevertheless, he responded dutifully.

“He protests that he is no mere thief, but an expert pickpocket. Clearly, he is hoping to impress someone aboard. Your ‘government types,’ I suppose, if they are the ones who hired him.”

“Not at all!” Holmes declared. “The boy was in love, was he not?”

“So you said.”

“Thus, he desires to impress but one person—his beloved Anabel.”

Douglas frowned, his exasperation growing.

“You are saying this ‘Anabel’ is aboard the ship? Then why would he have bothered writing her at all?”

“Perhaps her family was not keen on having her courted by a scruffy younger male. There was an Anabel on the passenger list,” Holmes said as they reached the dock. “Aged twenty, surname of ‘Lynch.’ But as there is no shortage of Anabels in the world, I assumed it was mere coincidence.”

“Do you mean to say that you memorized more than one thousand names?” Douglas asked, and he let out a surprised laugh that made his ribs ache.

“Don’t be daft,” Holmes responded crossly. “What need would I have for that? I only noted the women who were aged seventeen to twenty-five. With the very good notion of seeing if… perhaps Georgiana was aboard.”

He said her name with profound sorrow.
As if she were lost to him already
, Douglas thought. Then he put the notion aside. “And how many were there,” he asked, “aged seventeen to twenty-five?”

“One hundred and thirty-eight,” Holmes mumbled.

Douglas stood where he was, forcing Holmes to stop, and the stream of passengers to move around them.

“You memorized
one hundred and thirty-eight names
—in the half a moment it took you to read them?”

“I did not ‘memorize’ them,” Holmes protested. “I ‘noted’ them.”

“And what, pray, is the difference?”

Holmes sighed. “If you memorize something, it is in your brain forever, rattling around in there, taking up space. If you
note
something, you do not recall it unless something else brings it to mind. As did the boy’s plaintive cries, just now. I noted something I had read, in relation to something I heard. Is that so very strange?”

“It is strange when the memory is word for word,” Douglas responded. He thought a moment, then added, “So, for example, the speed of the ship brought to mind that magazine essay.”

“Precisely,” Holmes said.

“Fascinating,” Douglas said. They began to walk again, saying nothing more until their feet had reached the end of the dock.

“We have made it,” Holmes declared, glancing about.

“Yes,” Douglas said. “For better or worse, here we are.”

* * *

The wharf was filled with people of all colors, which meant that Holmes was able to take his bag from Douglas without arousing hostility.

Port of Spain’s docks appeared no different than any port’s, which was to say mostly they were dirty and noisy, with large wooden warehouses meant to facilitate cargo, and not to appeal to the senses. The water looked slick with oil, and crowded-in with ships and boats and tugs and vessels of all kinds.

Making their way through the throng was a chore. The thousand souls who had been trapped for nine long days ’tween decks were taking full advantage of their newfound freedom. No longer were they beholden to England’s stuffy ways and her ideas of class. They and their children were running roughshod through the port.

Given the people disembarking from other ships, natives selling wares and trinkets, laborers and crew hastening for a meal and a drink, and painted ladies looking for a man for an hour or for the night, it was nearly impossible for Douglas and Holmes to move at all.

They had managed only a few steps when Holmes felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, and was surprised to see Captain Miles.

He thought that the man looked haunted, or perhaps a bit drunk.

The captain glanced around quickly, as if about to do something untoward. Then, taking advantage of the mass of people on the docks, he sidled up so close that Holmes could smell the rye on his breath.

“I… I was aware of the goings-on aboard,” he murmured. “Some of it, at least. I never should have turned a blind eye. Never. This is… by way of apology.” With that, he took a small envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to Holmes. “Inside is a list of names. Get to the governor’s office, and do not open it until you arrive, as you shall need aid with what you find therein. Now that you are no longer on the
Sultana
, you are no longer under protection.

“Go quickly, for there is no time to spare.”

He stepped away and moved to depart. Before Holmes could say a word in response, half a dozen crewmen surrounded their captain like a human shield and hastened him out of their sight.

“So. He was bribed to look away from whatever ‘indiscretion’ was transpiring aboard,” Douglas grumbled. “We—most likely you—were a danger to that indiscretion, based on your position in government. He allowed us to be beaten, and you to be poisoned to within an inch of your life, and now the guilt consumes him. If that is how he protected us,” he added, “then let us thank our stars that his protection has come to an end!”

Holmes shook his head no.

“He said ‘under protection,’ Douglas. Not ‘under my protection.’ Someone else was protecting us—someone who wanted us to be out of commission, but not killed. Whoever that was, his influence has waned. We had best get to the governor’s office posthaste.”

The two mingled again with the crowd, every one of them anxious to get away from the docks and begin their brand-new adventure in Trinidad.

* * *

The two friends moved past the warehouses to where the docks finally ended and Port of Spain began in earnest. In truth, however, the section through which they walked was still heavily indebted to the ships that came in and out of harbor, and most particularly to the thirsty men who worked long, hard hours to provide for themselves and their kin.

Just across from the docks stood a long row of wooden dwellings, each two stories high. Gaps between their mildewed planks gave the appearance of a mouthful of rotten teeth. Here and there, where the dwellings seemed ready to buckle, large, rough-hewn beams propped them up, with one end of the beam sunk into the roadway below. To add to the maze, there were wooden stairs that led to doorways—as well as occasional second-story windows. More stairs led below the sidewalk to basement doors covered by weather-beaten burlap of fading red, yellow, orange, or teal. None of these openings was tall enough for a human body to pass through without squatting.

“These ‘habitations’ look less than habitable,” Holmes said, and he frowned to Douglas.

“That is because they are public houses,” Douglas explained.

Drawing closer, Holmes could see that a few of the better ones—the ones with regular doors—sported such names as “The Anchor,” “The Pig and Whistle,” or “The Port o’ Call.” Many more were unnamed and very nearly invisible, but for handmade sketches of beer mugs announcing that drinks could be found therein.

“They serve only ale?” Holmes asked, indicating The Anchor. “Might we find quick sustenance there, as well?”

Douglas shook his head no.

“Stale bread or crackers is more like it. Or dirty water that someone will call a broth. Surely we are not that desperate.” He nodded into the distance. “Once in town proper, there’ll be nourishment aplenty. Might you survive ’til then?”